Tuesday, September 30, 2008

My Brain Says No, But My Cock Says Yes

Would Johnny give up the fate of the free world for just one kiss? Probably.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Subway Stories 2: "Shit Happens. Take You, For Instance."

That was the message glaring at me from the T-shirt of the guy standing across from me on the 1 train this morning. And I thought I had sociopathic tendencies.

But, seriously, what the fuck? And what the fuck would possess someone to wear a shirt like that? Angling for that big promotion at work, I take it.

Now, a T-shirt with a row of cartoon women in thongs under the phrase, So Much Ass, So Little Time, that I get. But, this? Honestly, I wanted to punch him in the face. And, considering we were the only two people standing, the unavoidable eye contact we made was awkward, to say the least. But not nearly as awkward as the handjob in the stairwell afterward. God, what was I thinking?

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Happy Bruce Day!

Why are we working today? At the very least, banks and the Post Office should be closed—for today is Bruce Springsteen's birthday and it should be a national fucking holiday. George Washington? Abraham Lincoln? What did those knuckleheads ever do to warrant getting their own federally observed holidays? Bruce Springsteen saved rock and roll and a few hundred million souls along with it.

I was going to avoid mentioning how old Bruce turns today because I thought it might be depressing. But, you know what? It's not. Not even close. I saw him live not two months ago and watching him sprint all over the stage and inspire a stadium full of people was anything but depressing. More like electrifying. At 59(!), he can do things—slide across the stage on his knees, get 55,000 people to sway their arms in unison, do a windmill on his guitar like Peter Fucking Townshend circa 1970—most folks can't do at 29. And what I find most amazing, most thrilling, is that there is nothing nostalgic about seeing Bruce Springsteen perform in 2008. This is not like seeing the Stones perform their greatest hits for the umpteenth time. No, this guy is in the present, more so than any other artist out there. His new songs are just as affecting and stirring as his old songs—which, by the way, he plays with the urgency and ferocity of someone who wrote them yesterday.

I guess what I'm trying to say is I... um... love you, Bruce Springsteen. Wholly, truly, deeply. And, honestly, I don't mean that in a platonic way. Nor in a, "Hey, man, I love Bruce!" kinda way. No, I mean that in a totally sexual way. But, not dirty, fuck-me-hard kinda sex. I'm talking making love. Am I saying I want Bruce inside me right now? I don't know. Maybe.

Wow. That feels good to finally say aloud.

Happy Birthday, Boss.

Monday, September 22, 2008

I Liked It Better When It Was Called X-Men

Good will battle evil, huh? No shit. More like derivative will battle predictable.

I also liked the headline better the first time I used it—comparing the poster for Step Brothers to The 40 Year-Old Virgin. In my face, yet again. Thanks, God.

Saturday, September 20, 2008


Vincent Van Gogh's Starry Night Over The Rhone will be appearing
at the Museum of Modern Art beginning Sunday, September 21.

Not Art

Damien Hirst's The Broken Dream (sold this past week for $908,000)
will soon be appearing in the living room of some obnoxious
new-money Russian billionaire.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

If You Paid $18.6 Million For This, You Are An Idiot

Modern art never ceases to amaze me. British "artist" Damien Hirst kills a cow, dips his hoofs and horns in gold, puts him in a formaldehyde tank and gets some deranged lunatic (a hedge fund manager, no doubt) to pay almost $20 million dollars for it? In this sputtering and plummeting economy?

Still, I suppose it's a bit more artistic than a video piece I saw at London's Tate Modern a couple years back in which a naked man wearing a repellent mask repeatedly punched himself in the face for ten minutes, then squirted ketchup and mustard over his, ahem, genitals, and then beat off. (If that's art, then I was Picasso last night.)

What's that? You'd like to see a clip of said video? I don't think that's such a good idea. You insist? Well, okay... But, be careful what you wish for...

By the way, the Tate's placard for the 1976 video, entitled Rocky, claimed: "It can be seen as a metaphor for the artist's inward pain, as well as a comment on the fascination with violence inflicted upon the body in popular culture." Well, duh.

Check out the additional works sold earlier this week at Hirst's London Sotheby's show, unpretentiously titled, "Beautiful Inside My Head Forever" (if only they stayed there)...

How precious! A dead fetal pig with wings glued to it!
Titled "Pigs Might Fly," (I'm 100% serious) it sold for $872,000. (Still serious.)

These artfully-arranged cigarette butts sold for $3.2 million.

While I'm at it, I might as well put up these profound and imaginative works by the American Hirst, Jeff Koons...

I suppose this makes my hall closet MoMA?


I realize you don't come to Johnny for art criticism, and for that I apologize. Perhaps this bit of hilarity from master comedian Jay Leno will make up for it: "Lehman Brothers went bankrupt. Merrill Lynch was sold to Bank of America. See, that's when you know the subprime mortgage market is bad, even brokerage houses are losing their houses. That's why they're called brokers. After they take your money, you're broker. You see?"

Hysterical! People losing their life savings and homes is funny! Oh, how we'll miss your insightful witticisms, Jay!

Saturday, September 13, 2008

Mother. Fucker.

Mother of five/VP candidate/Antichrist Sarah Palin sat down with noted nerdly anchorman Charlie Gibson this week in her home state of Alaska. (I'm still not convinced Alaska's an actual state. Let me do some research and get back to you.) Watch here to learn specifically how she plans to destroy all that we hold dear.

Friday, September 12, 2008

¡El Pollo Logo!

Turns out, Johnny ain't the only with a brave new corporate logo.
BP's genius can also be found on my sister site, Mega Superior Gold.
(Not to be confused with my "sista" site, The Cocoa Lounge.)

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Behold The Greatest Logo Of All Time

Welcome to the new and improved Spanish Johnny. Frog unitard plumber custard bukaki trampoline Tony Randall.

You see, I figure I can pretty much type whatever I want right now because you are no doubt so mesmerized by my stunning new logo that you are barely reading this sentence.

Pretty badass, huh? Johnny's got friends in high places. Two questions: (1) Am I better than you because I now have a logo? Yes. Yes, I am. And (2) What God among men created such magnificence? Props must be given to one of the world's leading designers—and lovers—a man who goes by the nom de guerre, BP. (Not to be confused with the world's third largest global energy company, the London-headquartered multinational oil consortium, British Petrol. Though, they are working on a theme song for the site. Not sure why I thought they'd be qualified to do so... I should probably rethink that.) No, this BP is someone far more talented and environmentally-friendly. In fact, the only thing larger than his talent is his heart. Oh, and his cock. That thing is massive. And surprisingly articulate.

The logo has been so well received that Johnny's thinking of making T-shirts, as well as—you guessed it—panties (beautiful, glorious full-back panties) for all the ladies out there. Hope you're not still cross with me over my "Cunt" posting, girls. (If you are, dare I say that's might cunty of you.)

Anyways, Johnny's gotta say muchas gracias to BP for his fantastic 'Dirty Sanchez meets Don Corleone' logo. It says I've arrived. While adding a hint of legitimacy to posts such as "You Are A Douche" and "Like You've Never Suckled On The Teat Of A Unicorn After Taking The Form Of A Kitten." And for that, Johnny is forever grateful.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

I Don't Want To Be Your Friend On Facebook

Stop "friending" me. All of you. That means you, Girl I Went To Junior High With. And you, too, Person Who Sits On The Other Side Of The Office Who's Never Said Two Words To Me. And let's not forget, Silver-Haired Friend Of My Mom. (Yes, I wanted to bang you back in high school because you were older. Now you're just old.)

I realize, of course, this is not untouched territory. Far from it. (That's what happens when you start a blog 10 years after the rest of the world.) But, Johnny's got an itch that's gotta be scratched. (Whatever that means.)

Why I signed up for Facebook, I'll never know. I'm not in high school and I hate people in real life so why would I want to socialize with them online? Still, after the first few months it was rather innocuous, people poking you and turning you into zombies and such. Totally irrelevant, senseless waste of time. I generally ignored it.

Oh, if only it were so simple now. You see, initially I didn't understand the function of Facebook. My first Facebook friends were actual real life friends, people I saw and talked to everyday. If I wanted to contact them, I could just email them, right? Facebook did nothing for me.

But, then it all changed.

"Stephanie Taylor Clark added you as a friend on Facebook..."

Stephanie Taylor Clark? Who the fuck is that?
Sounds vaguely familiar...

Oh my God... I think I went to junior high with her.

Two questions: (1) How did she find me? and (2) Why did she find me?

I pictured her sitting at the computer in her miserable Sarasota apartment with her drunk husband passed out nearby on the couch, junior high yearbook on her lap, typing in the names of everyone from her/our class. (Ouch.)

Not knowing what I was getting myself into, I accepted her friendship. Why not? I thought.

Holy Christ. It was like opening a can of worms—and having a giant black dildo pop out and smack you right in the eye, like one of those springy snakes. I honestly believe this woman really did go through the yearbook, because she had befriended every single person from my nursery school, elementary school, junior high and high school. Including the janitors. Okay, so that's not exactly true, unless you count the kids who grew up to become janitors—of which there was a disproportionate amount. And once I was linked to her, forget it. They all came out of the woodwork: Boy I Pummeled For Stealing My Stuffed Animal (named "Bunny") At Show & Tell In Nursery School, Girl Who Let Me Watch Her Pee In 2nd Grade, Kid I Nicknamed Rednuts In 4th Grade And Made Damn Sure It Stuck With Him Until College.

People I lost touch with for a reason. Most of whom I didn't want to communicate with back then and I certainly don't want to communicate with now. Including some with rather poor memories: Trust me, Michelle F.—you do not want to be friends with me. I'm sure I was mean to you in junior high (I believe I called you Horseface) and I'm a helluva lot meaner now...Horseface. And you know the saddest part? You probably know this. So, why, I must ask, would you want to be friends with me? Is it because, like a good portion of Facebook, you had trouble making friends back then and you're trying to make up for it now? (Thus explaining many Facebook members unholy obsession with acquiring as many friends as possible, i.e., "Look how popular I am. Sitting alone at my taupe melamine computer table from Walmart. Desperately waiting for someone, anyone, to confirm our friendship." Ouch. Again.) If the Horseface line didn't convince you not to be friends with me, then surely the prior sentiment did. No? Well, then how about this: Would you still want to be friends with me if you knew I dragged your profile photo into Photoshop, shortened your hair, gave you a mustache (thank you, wookie-esque eyebrows!) and sent it to my old friends? Some of whom I recently became reacquainted with thanks to a delightful social networking site called...Facebook.

is why you don't want to be friends with me.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

Is Sarah Palin The Antichrist?

Be afraid, America, be very afraid.

Governor Sarah Palin's speech last night at the Republican National Convention was, in a word, terrifying. Senator McCain might as well have selected a cavewoman as his running mate. As a noted feminist (Spanish Johnny loves the ladies), it pains me to think she's most likely set the women's movement back a good 50 years.

This woman is a charlatan, a performer, an actress—one who was fed a dangerous script, however. A dangerous, incendiary script. One that a good portion of America no doubt ate up. I get the feeling the same conventioners who chanted "U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.!" last night would also chant the same thing while watching an American soldier rape an Iraqi girl.

No wonder every other country hates us.

Oh, I'm sorry—did I just say something negative about this great country of ours? Palin and the GOP have made it clear that anyone who does so is evil. (Perhaps they should take a look at the Constitution sometime.) Thus explaining her effusive praise of McCain while patting herself on the back for blindly accepting that everything our leaders propose and do is right. (See Iraq War, 4/20/03–Armageddon). We're not allowed to question our government? Everything America does is good and righteous? How is that patriotism? More like jingoism, no? Remarkable. Such blind faith in any other venue—e.g., at work or home—would be considered detrimental. Mistakes are made. Often. And that's okay to admit. It's called humility, not infallibility.

I suppose now's as good a time as any to remind everyone that Sarah Palin is the governor of Alaska. Alaska, for chrissake! I don't even think Alaska's a real state. (It is? Really?) It has a population of 670,000. Fill up Michigan Stadium six times and you'd get the same number of people. 670,000! That's 1/4 the population of Brooklyn.

Regardless, Palin's homespun, aw-shucks talk struck all the right chords. She claimed victory in Iraq is finally in sight. (Really? "Victory"? That's the term you want to use?) She played the 'mother of a soldier' card. (Announcing that her 19-year old son will be deployed to Iraq on...9/11. Bullshit. No fucking way was that the actual date until they wrote it into her speech. And why is he going there if victory is in sight?) She played the 'mother of a special needs child' card. (Not even sure what to say here, except this: Using your four-month old baby with Down syndrome as a political prop is truly despicable.)

Trust me, the rest of the world watched this speech with glee.
Ate it the fuck up, too.

For entirely different reasons.

As if they needed more ammo to hate us.

This woman will only fan the flames. Elect her and McCain and prepare to watch this country burn to the ground.

Oh, and if my credibility wasn't already in question based upon my prior post about, ahem, defecation, then here's one last bon mot to seal the deal: Is it me or does McCain's wife look like an aging British rocker in drag?

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

For The Love Of God, Please Don't Emerge From The Stall While I'm At The Urinal

I beg of you. Please stay in there. Continue doing your business, you filthy animal, lest I have to make eye contact with you. Knowing traces of your leavings are swirling not four feet away. Obliged to engage in small talk with you while you futilely attempt to wash the sin from your soiled hands and I inhale the foul bouquet created by the demon that emerged from your shamed and vile asshole.